Formative Experiences in Florida in the Early Fifties

Here's a picture of the gasoline station my father purchased in 1951.

Dad was the kind of guy who never knew a stranger. Wish I had that attribute. He and Mom made friends with a Greek couple whose family owned a local deep sea fishing business. A part of their business was taking tourists on tours to demonstrate how they dove for sponges. Steve gave Dad an old sponge diving suit to hang in front of the station to attract tourists. We'd refer tourists to their dock. In exchange, we got to go deep sea fishing anytime we wanted for free.

Steve was 24, dark and handsome, and I had a crush on him. I was nine. He didn't have any children, so he doted on my brother and me. He went out of his way to ensure that we had a fantastic experience.

I'd heard tales of sea sickness, and was a little scared when we set sail on our first deep sea fishing excursion. Little did I know what a treat I was in for. Once we were in the Gulf of Mexico, out of sight of land, Steve excitedly called my brother and me to the front of the boat. He carefully lifted us over the bow so that we could see dolphins playing follow the leader along side. That began my love affair with these magnificent creatures.

Living in Florida for that year in the early 1950's formed who I would become in many ways. It was a part of my emerging into a fuller human being. It was a captivating experience. 

Something to ponder and share if you are willing: 

The early formative experiences I have had that contributed to me emerging into a fuller human being are...

An aside...twice in my adult life I've had an opportunity to swim with dolphins. What fun!!

"Life is uncertain. Eat dessert first."
Ernestine Ulmer

Memories During the 50th Anniversary Commemoration of the March on Washington

There were “Whites Only” signs over the one drinking fountain and one bathroom in the gasoline station my dad bought in 1951. Our family had just moved from Sidney, Ohio to Tarpon Springs, Florida. We had not been exposed to such blatant racism. We were confronted with attitudes that rendered “Negroes” as morally and intellectually inferior to whites.

Dad was fulfilling a dream of owning his own business, a place where he could utilize his skills as an automobile mechanic. It became a family business, with Mom pumping gas and changing oil. My brother and I hung out at the station after school probably getting more in the way than in helping out. My brother was eight and I was nine.

The white man who sold the station to Dad proved to us that it was his moral character that was lacking. He tried to teach Dad how to cheat blacks, giving them less gas or oil than they paid for. Dad would have none of that. A white employee proved to us that it was his moral character that was in question. He stole from us. On the other hand, we had a very different experience with blacks.

Once the station was his free and clear, the “Whites Only” signs came down. Word got around town that Dad and Mom treated blacks fairly and with respect. Many blacks became our customers. Some lacked the money to pay for the services they needed. So Dad gave them odd jobs in lieu of financial remuneration. He found them to be honest, hard workers. One day, a black customer asked to borrow money from Dad. Dad gave him the loan. The next day, this man returned the money, saying he didn’t need it after all. That happened shortly after the white employee absconded with our money.

Today, as I watch the 50^th Anniversary of the March on Washington, I remember my parents with pride. Their example made a huge impression on me. I credit their behavior in Florida with my interest in social justice issues.

We only stayed in Florida for a year. Owning his own business was more demanding on family time than my Dad had anticipated. So we moved to my mother’s hometown in Ohio. New Bremen is a little German farming community. It was uncommon to see people of color there. On occasion, a few blacks worked for the alfalfa mill on the edge of town, but I rarely saw them. One family with our same last name, Marshall, lost everything they owned in a house fire. My dad collected food and clothing for them. Someone in town asked him why he was doing that. “They’re my cousins,” he responded.

In 1959, my classmates and I were asked to participate in a contest to select the next editor of our high school newspaper, The Crimson and Gold. A group of teachers would chose the best editorial on the topic, “Integration: Now or Never.” The writer would be editor during our senior year. I received my first distinction as a writer. I now see that my selection had something to do with my skill as a writer. But I think my experiences witnessing bigotry and the injustice of Jim Crow laws in the South gave me a perspective that my classmates lacked.

Martin Luther King, Jr. was already gaining national prominence, years before the 1963 March on Washington. He led the 1955 Montgomery Bus Boycott and helped found the Southern Christian Leadership Conference in 1957. The fear that I heard expressed most often if blacks achieved their goals was that blacks and whites would begin to intermarry. I no longer have a copy of what I wrote in that editorial, but I remember trying to dispel white people’s fear.

In August 1963, I was working a summer job in New Bremen, preparing to enter my senior year at Bowling Green State University. I don’t remember hearing anything about the March on Washington. Even though my family believed in treating all people fairly and with respect, we were not social activists. It wasn’t until I was an adult that I met anyone who actually participated in that March. I regret missing it. Even so, we were in sympathy with the dream that was lifted up that day. My parents are gone now, but if they were still here, they, like me, would be in sympathy with the dream that is being lifted up in Washington today. Yes, progress has been made. But the dream remains unfulfilled.   

My parents lived long enough to see Barack Obama elected President. We were thrilled. Mom died shortly after his election. Dad’s health was failing, too. He wanted to stick around to see how Obama handled the challenges our country was facing in 2008. He just could not do it. He died seventeen days before the inauguration. If he were still here, we’d be watching the 50^th Anniversary Commemoration together and having a lively conversation. I miss him. My parent’s example in 1951-52 contributed to making me into a more compassionate person. For that I am grateful on this historic anniversary.

Ponderings:
What were the examples that influenced you at a young age?
How did these examples shape the kind of person you would become?

"The time is always right to do what is right."

Martin Luther King, Jr.

"There is no small act of kindness. 

Every compassionate act makes large the world."

Mary Anne Radmacher

Sophia's Table to be featured in the Dayton Daily News

I have just been informed that Sophia's Table: Women's Wisdom in Five Voices, will be featured in Sharon Short's Literary Life column in the Dayton Daily News on September 8. 

This book is a collaboration among five of us who were part of a contemplative writing group. We are told that collaborating in this way is quite unusual. We each had a task to perform in addition to submitting and critiquing our writing. And we are still on speaking terms. In fact, we have a weekend planned to celebrate Karen's, the initiator of this project, birthday in Berea, KY.

We'll be having a book signing on October 1. More info to come.

Here's the link to purchase it from the publisher.

http://bookstore.authorhouse.com/Products/SKU-000476719/Sophias-Table.aspx

Now You Can Fly

Phyllis gave me a butterfly pin for my birthday, the summer before I started seminary. The card said, "Now you can fly!" She mentored me and nurtured my gifts until I had the courage to break out of my familiar chrysalis and risk becoming a seminary student, something not many woman were doing in 1975.

In my first class, Woman, Man, and the Sexual Revolution, my small group envisioned a future where people would be named once their personalities and gifts were known, sort of like the practice Native Americans use. We chose names for each other and the name I was given was "Emerging Butterfly." After I graduated, my retreat ministry was called "Emergings" and my logo was a butterfly. I love this metaphor for transformation, the process of becoming who we are meant to be. In my experience it is a life-long and never-ending process.

Outgrowing one stage of life often involves a struggle. Letting go of the old so something new can emerge, sometimes something that we don't yet have a clear picture of, is scary. The hard skin of our familiar chrysalis feels safe even as our wings are stretching and calling us forth to fly. Emerging is a struggle. It can feel awful. And it is. It is filled with awe. But we usually don't experience the awe until we've emerged and realize that the emerging has strengthened us. The hard golden skin of a butterfly's pupa is called a chrysalis from the Greek word for gold, chrysos. It has taken me many emergings to appreciate the gold in the struggle. 

After I retired from work that had given my life meaning and purpose for many years, I went through a process of discerning what was next for me. Out of the struggle, I emerged as a writer. I'd written before, received positive feedback for my skills, and even been published in small journals. My favorite was one associated with the University of Dayton, Explorations: Journal for Adventurous Thought. It delighted me to be included in a journal with that name, to be seen as one who thinks adventurously. But I did not identify myself as a writer.

Now, I have collaborated with four other women and we have just published a book called, Sophia's Table: Women's Wisdom in Five Voices. I am in the process of writing my memoir, A Long Awakening to Grace. And I'm starting this blog. While this is all very exciting, it is also scary. Once more I'm stretching my wings and learning to fly. Memoir writing is very different from the academic papers, personal narratives, and newsletter submissions that have characterized my writing life. I am having to learn the craft. That is fun and challenging for one in her early seventies. Will I be able to produce a book that is interesting for readers? As with all memoir writers, I risk ridicule and judgment as I reveal to the world my authentic and flawed humanity. I am fortunate to have a community of support cheering me on..."Now you can fly," just as I have had with each emerging in my life.

Even though I have never met her, I consider Brené Brown and her book, Daring Greatly, to be a part of my support system. She knows that putting my writing out into the world with no assurance that it will be accepted or appreciated makes me vulnerable. I remind myself daily to dare greatly. 

One facet of my protective chrysalis, remaining invisible, has to go for me to emerge fully. I'm an introvert who finds it difficult to get into lively group discussions, so I often remain silent. I prefer to avoid conflict. My heart pounds and I tremble when offering an opinion that may not be welcomed. Having grown up with neglect, I fear being ignored and discounted as though who I am and what I have to say doesn't matter. Becoming visible through this blog and my writing are acts of courage, part of my process of emerging. Today I dare greatly as I click the publish key.

I find people and the stories of their lives fascinating. That's why I love memoir and personal narrative. I hope you will risk sharing here about your process of emerging, learning to fly, embracing all of who you are meant to be. 

Ponderings:
What "Chrysalis Emerging" experiences have you had in your life?
What is "daring greatly" for you?
What "Now you can fly!" path did you follow?
How has following that path impacted your life?

"Find the thing that stirs your heart and make room for it. 

Life is about the development of self to the point of unbridled joy."

Joan Chittister